


New year eve in Rome

by ARMEN15



Category: Bron | Broen | The Bridge
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-08 06:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17381444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARMEN15/pseuds/ARMEN15
Summary: From the lovely work by selma_sarah, from our conversations and from real life, inspiration for a  day in the eternal city, during holiday time.Usual disclaimers apply. A work in 3 chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

A DAY IN ROME

MORNING 

“Santo Spirito in Saxia, the monastic buildings are behind the Church.”  
Saga read from the Rome guide she bought at the airport shop as soon as they landed on Saturday and went for the church entrance; Henrik and Astrid a step behind.  
Astrid had asked them to return in the morning to St Peter’s square to take more pictures of the Bernini columns; they had finished late their visit to the Sistine chapel the previous day - Sunday, December, 30th, their second day in Rome - and it was too dark to obtain good images.  
After breakfast they left the rented apartment near Campo dei Fiori at the same time of their landlords, the Manzoni, a family of three living on the floor above theirs.  
Carlo Manzoni was going to buy the newspapers and his wife on her way to the post office with a parcel. Henrik had asked Mrs. Manzoni help - as soon as they met on the early afternoon of the 29th to receive the keys - about where to buy food and she had accompanied him. Saga and Astrid had followed, observing in silence the large plates with new foods on display, while Henrik and Mrs. Manzoni had discussed, pointing at the various alternatives. It seemed the Italian woman had no strange reactions to the notion of Henrik being the cook at home; instead, she told Saga she was a very lucky woman.  
Saga reflected about it, was that many women – also in Italy - were not so prone to be the housewife and maybe a large percentage would prefer the man to help more? In this case she was indeed lucky, Sandra had a home office, travelled around Italy for work and she had told Saga her cleaner would clean also the rented apartment every day, but probably she was the one in the kitchen every evening.  
After half an hour Henrik had discovered lots of new things about Italian food – subtle differences regarding “salumi”, the varieties of ravioli and tortellini, home made pasta with eggs - and Saga had become curious about what they would eat.  
Mrs. Manzoni, Sandra as she asked to be called, walked with them to the bus stop along Lungo Tevere and wished them a lovely day in town.  
“The Manzoni are kind”, Saga stated on the bus. “They are used to meet foreigners.”  
“Yes, probably. Sandra told me they started holiday renting only a few months ago, so we are among their firsts customers.”  
“Why she said they are worried about the rugby in February?”  
“Six nations rugby starts then and matches with Italy are played in Rome, probably she has bookings from UK.”  
“Football fans are worse than rugby fans.”  
Astrid asked why she was so sure. Saga explained foreign football fans had damaged some monuments in Rome more than once and the news had been reported all over Europe, while rugby matches were more friendly and good for families. 

 

The square in front of the most important church of the Christianity was crowded, it was new year’s Eve, so it would close around noon, the panel announced; the organized tours were concentrated in the morning and a long line of tourists was waiting to enter St. Peter.  
Saga felt there were too many people around to start the day and lead her family through quieter streets, parallel to the shenographic Via della Conciliazione.  
Santo Spirito was compact and had no particularities to note, it was the large building of the ancient monastery with a view over river Tevere that attracted attention.  
“Renovation of the buildings.” Henrik announced when he saw the scaffolding along the street.  
“Never mind, we have other places to see.”  
Crossing the river on Vittorio Emanuele Bridge, Astrid stopped for a photo, her new Canon - one of Henrik’s gift for Christmas, with expensive lens he had to reserve from the shop, because it was considered a professional equipment – in full use.  
There were stairs descending from each bridge, people walking along the banks, bikers and runners.  
The sunny winter morning was perfect for the last day of the year and Henrik was glad he controlled the weather forecast and suggested a light outfit.  
Saga remembered well how much she suffered the heath in her previous early spring visit and didn’t oppose to his recommendations.  
She had a new light coat to show off, shorter than she used to, one of Henrik’s Christmas gifts, when he noticed she was interested in the items exposed in a Malmo shop.  
The stairs were dirty, beer cans, two bottles, plastic bags, grass growing between the steps, not a great visiting card for the city.  
The view compensated the descent, a strung of bridges, Castel Sant’Angelo on their left.  
“It was used as a fortress, as a library and also as a prison.” Saga quoted from her book, Henrik looked at her with a strange sad smile.  
Astrid knew that a prison had been between them, but neither him nor Saga showed an inclination to explain her the details. Their relationship was made of silence more than words, she suspected, but she was sure they felt both a deep connection, like they could read each other’s mind.  
Saga took photos with her phone; how many she had sent Henrik first time she was there. Rome had been her turning point, she imagined to travel more, but what the point of seeing things if she started wanting to share them? His comments to her photos were the things she treasured most, she found herself impatient to see the double check and the emoticons he was used to add.  
The loneliness and the longing she felt in Rome after three weeks away made her turn the Porsche north. In two days she was in Copenhagen, her plans for Paris and the rest of France delayed. Henrik arrived home having dropped Astrid to the rehabilitation centre, saw the car and ran into the house to find Saga in the kitchen staring at the microwave oven. Another ardent hunger was satisfied before Saga could eat.

 

On the other shore of Tevere river they asked for a bus to the centre; the map showed how far they were from the area of Fori Imperiali they visited the day before and from where Saga wanted to start the second day of visit.  
Near the bus stop, the church of St John of the Fiorentini was closed: Astrid and Henrik exchanged a meaningful look. If Rome was the city of 100 churches, Saga's ideas could be very dangerous. The kind policeman sat at the wheel of a blue Alfa Romeo Giulietta, whose help they asked, told them in a simply English – after Saga placed the map under his eyes and pointed to the destination she wanted - that each bus was good and in a short time they were in Piazzale Venezia.  
From the balcony of the homonym palace the Italian leader had announced war in 1940, a disgraceful alliance with Germany that lead his nation to a heavy defeat.  
“Sweden was lucky to remain neutral, Denmark suffered, too.”  
“We studied WW2 at school in the village, the Swedish side.”  
“My maternal grandfather was involved at that time. He was a sergeant in Odense police and remembered well the occupation time. The resistance tried to oppose, but with few results. The Germans were too strong, they killed many opponents.”  
They crossed the square and entered Via del Corso, lined up with shops and filled with a crowd.  
Saga lead them to a little square, whose church had an inviting open door and the large panel of the nativity scene draped over the entrance.  
They entered and noticed the nativity scene in one of the chapels.  
It was carefully built, with water flowing, accurate reproduction of houses and stables of the time and huge statues of the characters, human and animals.  
Astrid was watching, reading the notes that explained how the same man had built the Presepe for thirty years in the church.  
“Dad, why we saw a nativity also outside St. Peter this morning, made of sand?”  
“I think it is very typical here, we tend to use the trees, they have another tradition.”  
“Saint Francis, the patron of animals, started the “presepe”, in medieval times, according to the sources.” Saga was informed, as usual.  
“So every country has its way to celebrate?”  
“Yes Astrid, in Russia Christmas is based on the ancient calendar and is not on December 25th, in Spain the gifts arrive with the three kings...”  
“Three kings?”  
“The kings who followed the stars to reach the newborn Jesus and offer him gold, incense and myrrah.”  
“You know so many things, I'll never be able to be like you, Saga.”  
“There's no need to be like me, you can become what you want. And I can be boring sometimes.”  
“Oh no, never, life is so frizzy since I got you.”  
Astrid took another photo and Henrik and Saga looked at each other over her shoulders.  
The young woman was their most precious treasure, their purpose to make her feel loved and cared for. Not another Jennifer, not a person grieving for a family who disintegrated, in a way or the other, in front of her very eyes.  
Saga saved Astrid twice, for Henrik, for Astrid and for herself, too.  
Hard to imagine her life if Brian had his way, hard to believe Henrik would have survived another loss. He’d never overcome it.  
Saga sometimes wondered if in the long term she'd have been enough for Henrik, should Astrid remained missing. She feared a negative answer, could he ever forgive her for killing his baby? She had a recurring dream of Henrik rejecting her and throwing her out of the house, while she suddenly had no voice to tell him she lied about the abortion to test his love and that the baby was alive; she always woke up trembling in the middle of the night.  
It was a foolish idea, she never lied, but her subconscious had mixed up two of her biggest fears, to loose him and to become a mother. Since they started living together, she understood Henrik was too important for her. Now, every time she had that dream, she got up and checked in the other bedroom that her girl was safe.  
If Henrik had accepted Saga since the beginning, she could accept him in full.  
The moment in the lift she found out he was married with children, she thought – with a hint of sadness that was unusual for her - it had been a one night stand and nothing more; the same evening he was at her door and soon after - without realising or admitting why - she was at his. Since then, no one else. Point.  
Impossible to separate the man from the father. Whatever Saga would have decided about the baby, he still was Astrid's father.  
Like she still was police. She had decided for a sabbatical year at university and to return in full force the following summer; too many years to complete her original idea of microbiology.  
And she was a good detective, Henrik repeated always, while studying for his own exams.  
Their house had become a library, books and folders scattered around, Astrid with earphones learning English not to disturb the others, Henrik repeating procedural rules while cooking, eyeing the codes near the coffee machine. Sometimes Saga asked his help in better understanding her texts, they discussed practical applications of psychology theories, Henrik suggesting people or situations he faced at work.  
It was helping her, slowly, to understand other people's behaviour, to reduce a little her bluntness when talking with someone.  
Henrik was there, respecting her social difficulties.  
Respect, the key word in their relationship. never stretching to the limit the boundaries each of them had, instead trying to become more flexible little by little. 

 

Astrid put a coin in the wooden box for the poor and when they left Saga choose an alternative route, less crowded, to the Trevi fountain.  
The water system in town dated to the roman empire and Astrid saw the sign of an archaeological site, called Castello dell'acqua.  
She lead the way, Henrik and Saga followed; a small entrance introduced them to an underground area, excavated during a complete renovation of a theatre above, with a small exposition of objects – delicate glasses in shades of aquamarina, remains of statues, anphores – with explicative panels. It was hot and humid under the street level, Saga took off her coat and felt suffocating; her first impulse was to run away, but she breathed deeply to calm herself and concentrate on the place she was exploring.  
It was easier for Saga to overcome some of her limitations and open her up to new possibilities. Henrik was reading from the panels and she focuses on the information she received.  
The small square of Trevi fountain was full of tourists, hard to find a way to reach the basin to throw the coins.  
“Why we must do it?”  
Astrid was doubtful. She had seen images of the place and believed it was different, wider and more imponent; reality somehow deluded expectations.  
“If you throw a coin in the fountain, you’ll return to Rome, says the tradition. I did so and I’m back.”  
“It isn’t logical.” Astrid retorted.  
“It is nice. And the coins go to charity, so nothing is wasted.”  
Henrik took off cents from his pocket and gave one each.  
“We’ll return. We’ll take the car and do a proper summer Italian holiday.”  
Saga nodded and Astrid took her father’s arm, leaning into him.  
They moved closer to the water, in the narrow space a group of cheerful Americans allowed, each lifted the hand with the coin.  
“Ready?”  
Henrik received two yes.  
“Ok, now.”  
The coins fell in the water, Henrik passed an arm on each of his women and briefly kissed both heads. 

 

They started wandering a little, looking at the buildings and the people passing by and ended up  
near San Silvestro in capite, a church with tags both in Italian and English. A little squared court was before the entrance, with remains of ancient statues and capitelli, like they saw at the colosseum the day before.  
They entered the church, a celebration was going on, the priest wished peace to the fedeli and gave advices for the following day's events.  
“Why is he speaking in English?” Astrid asked Henrik.  
“Because Rome is international and they celebrate in various languages.”  
“I thought it was an English church.”  
“No it's catholic, I'm sure, there is also a chapel on the left with a relic.”  
“What is a relic?”  
“A phisical remain or a personal effect of a saint preserved for veneration. Catholics uses them a lot.”  
Henrik read it was the head of St John the Baptist, set in a shrine barely visible behind an iron gate.  
“Is it true, dad?”  
“I really don’t know.”  
The priests at the altar entered the chapel, now dressed in a black clergyman  
He noticed the trio looking at the shrine, the man and the girl reading a prayer beside the small altar and the woman moving toward him, asking him bluntly if the relic was authentic.  
Saga was looking at the priest with an intense gaze, he felt she wasn't a toriust easily impressionable or convinced.  
“Tradition says so.”  
“Do you have proofs?”  
“Absolutely no.”  
“So why it is exposed to the public?”  
“You aren't Catholics, are you?”  
“No, Swedish and Danish. They are supposed Luterans. I have no church.”  
Saga pointed at Henrik and Astid who had rejoined her; Henrik was listening with attention.  
“Pragmatic and concrete, I know. I'm Italian but I grew up in Manchester with protestants. Relics were used since middle age as a form of devotion and teaching to the people.”  
“I know what relics are, the point is to trick people making them believe things.”  
“The catholic church has changed a lot during the centuries, many old beliefs have been abandoned or modernized.”  
The priest saw the man touched briefly the woman's elbow; Henrik was keener toward God and religion than Saga, he didn't want to argue with the priest furthermore.  
“If people had pleasure or comfort in the idea of a relic, why we should forbid it? It is a way to ease pain or anguish better than others.”  
Saga read his inner meaning: maybe praying in front of an altar could have saved him from years of pilling and abusing his body.  
The priest laughed, a free laugh, not mocking or making fun of Saga.  
“They say if you collect all the figments of the holy cross in the world, you could end up with a woods.”

 

They were again in via del Corso searching for Piazza di Spagna, when Astrid saw the Spanish flag on a large white building.  
“I bet the palace gives the name to the square.” Astrid declared.  
“You’re right, catholic nations valued Rome and the popes a lot. And often traders from the same area settled together and toponyms were created.”  
“Embassy are everywhere here, I saw the Brazilian yesterday, but I don’t remember where. Too many things to see here.” Astrid squared Henrik, surprised.  
Dad’s photographic memory was fading? Astrid trusted him with all her heart, her strength, her saviour, her real father.  
In few weeks the differences with Frank became evident. How dad cared for her, asking what she would like to do, to eat, to see on tv, never imposing things like Frank did. When she fell from her bycicle and sprained an ankle that soon swelled, he wanted to go to the ER for a rx although Saga assured him it was nothing serious.  
Astrid started hating Frank when Anna died and he refused to go to the hospital. Since then, she had a bag ready for the right occasion to leave the village; at first she thought it would be with Cristoffer, but he was too scared to move, for the opposite reason of Astrid. She was trapped, underneath a pretence of fatherly love.  
So when Henrik lead her back to the village, she simply grabbed her bag from under the bed and left for ever the place.  
Life with Henrik was great, if she liked something he didn’t, he’d would accept it for her. Always. Watching girlie tv programs together, listening to her favourite radio station in the car, buying her candies he once tried and had to spit so sweet they were.  
She didn’t remember her father was so devoted, but maybe she was too young, and he was younger, too.  
She did the maths, Mom and Dad married in their mid twenties, Dad had just turned forty, not like Frank who never revealed his real age, until Anna once found his driving licence with the date of birth in his desk with other papers.  
So Frank was already more than 50 and Anna was still alive.


	2. Chapter 2

AFTERNOON 

Many restaurants lined up along the shopping roads. “Pizzerie”, “trattorie”, “ristoranti”, “bar”, for every taste and every purse.  
The previous day they went for a fast food, too short the time with all the places Saga planned to see, impossible to return to the apartment to cook lunch.  
Henrik wanted a full Italian food experience, the way people eat at home everyday.  
They stopped at a trattoria called “Alfredo”, close to the mausoleum of Emperor Augusto, not before Saga examined the four large panels on the street showing the evolution of the mausoleum from ancient Rome through middle age and renaissance to the present day.  
It was warm enough to eat outside, under the small gallery, with some heaters between the tables.  
The list had a section reserved to traditional pastas: Astrid wanted one with local cheese and pepper, Saga choose the “arrabbiata”, getting from their waiter – a middle aged man with a big belly and a contagious laugh - a remark about not getting angry with her husband, Henrik opted for “bucatini all’amatriciana”, with slices of bacon and tomato.  
“Why you should be angry with Dad?”  
“I don't know, Astrid. I miss the meaning.”  
“He was joking, I'm sure. To make customers at ease.”  
Henrik knew too well how hard for Saga to capture the subleties and the inner meaning, especially with foreign languages and foreign cultures. His instinct to protect, to create a cushion between Saga and the rest of the world, was stronger when they were out of the familiar surroundings and her comfort zone.  
“What's the connection between “arrabbiata” and anger?”  
Saga was direct when the waiter returned with the drinks; the man put Astrid's coke on the table and stood still.  
He looked at Saga trying to understand if she was offended or not; Henrik had mercy of him, smiled and offered help. “We missed your joke.”  
The waiter breathed; used to tourists for a long time, the blond woman in front of him was indeed different.  
“In Italian angry is arrabbiato. I'm sorry, it's one of my jokes, to entertain the tourists a little.”  
“I'm not angry with you because I haven't understood.” Saga stated. ”Nor with my husband because I'm not married.”  
Three steaming dishes arrived and soon disappeared. Astrid sampled a forkful from each plate.  
“Which one do you prefer?” Henrik asked, wanting to try at home her favourite.  
“Yours, dad, Saga's good but too spicy for me.”  
“Also for me.” Saga gulped her second glass of water in a row. “I need an ice cream to cool me off!”  
“Astrid, what do you want for dessert?”  
“Something with chocolate.”  
Henrik called the waiter, ordered a large ice cream cup for Saga, refusing her objections: it was too big, she wasn't used to eat a lot outside home, she was aware how much he wanted to spoil her. A chocolate mousse with cream for Astrid and a tiramisù for himself followed.  
To see his family eat, to be able to offer them food, nourishment, a comfortable life, a warm house, to satisfy not only the basic needs but also something more, a walk along the beach, a theatre performance, a holiday in a foreign land, gave Henrik a feeling of satisfaction.  
Having a second chance, he hoped to do things right, to love and protect, not because social conventions stated it was a man's duty, but because he simply wanted to. The pressure he felt as a young husband and father had been too strong and together with the requests of his detective career slowly drifted him and Alice apart. 

 

Saga suggested to climb the large stairs up to Trinità dei Monti for the view; they had to go zig zag to avoid the dozens of tourists sat on the stairs, the higher they climbed, the more the people seemed to invade the space. But the landscape they spotted up above compensated everything.  
Another church, this time smaller, more intimate, with an iron gate separating the tourist’s area from the religious one. Silence inside, white walls, whispered words and muffled steps.  
Henrik lighted a candle at the altar of the mother of Jesus. A thanksgiving. The burden he felt since Astrid was back was lessening day by day, but he wanted to keep forever Alice and Anna in his heart.  
He had another woman, he loved her deeply, still he has been Alice’s husband before, the father of two girls.  
He missed Anna like Astrid did. No one could take Anna’s place, ever.  
Saga was standing by his side. Every day together was a blessing, a balm for his heart.  
The only woman who had accepted him, wholly, completely.  
Henrik murmured a prayer for his lost loved ones, the small nativity made him remember also the baby who never had a chance to live. He wished it had happened in every other moment, except that very wrong time, when he and Saga were too confused to be able to think clearly about what to do.  
The view from the hill gave a new perspective to the town; Rome was indeed built on seven hills. Saga controlled the map and proposed to avoid the confusion below and reach their next destination – the famous Caravaggio painting – with a walk along a tree lined road closed to cars for the day, as confirmed the municipal policemen, whose car was placed to prevent access.  
They glimpsed beautiful mansion, garden on roofs and plant with leafs still green, the mild weather allowing a lush vegetation.  
Astrid pointed at the twin churches on the south side of the square, Henrik controlled the guide.  
“The painting is in Santa Maria del Popolo. It must be the church at the opposite end of the square, near the arch.” He showed them the small map of the area and the location of the church.  
The entrance door was closed. Astrid wanted to see it, she had studied Caravaggio's use of light after Henrik bought her a book about the history of painting. Astrid was now able to point out the differences in styles and wanted to better study the subject, so Saga told Henrik they had to plan a Paris trip soon, with a guided Louvre and Orsay tour.  
“There is a museum entrance nearby, go ask if the Caravaggio is really unavailable.”  
Henrik was used to Saga's order-like, bossy attitude. He never complained, never argued with her, it was her style, she believed he was better skilled at human interaction and better versed in English. And he'd do everything to make his daughter happy.  
The young man at the information desk explained the church would open at 4 pm. Henrik looked at the watch, it was early afternoon, time to do a little shopping and be back. 

 

The low and medium brand chain stores were concentrated along Via del Corso, the top brand were in the most defiladed narrow roads departing from the main one.  
Astrid was fascinated by some of the goods in exposition, Henrik bought her a new bag, the choices were many but he had already noticed Astrid was fast in making choices.  
When the females entered a gallery with trendy shops for young people, Henrik told them he'd be back in half an hour; he had a personal errand to do, strictly related to the New year's eve.  
Back to his girls, he found them at Bershka in the fitting room, both trying new jumpers. Astrid was offering Saga some items, colour ranging from grey to green. Henrik waited in silence, it was a new world for Saga, he had gone with her to a H&M in Malmo but her choice were plain, her usual style. A jumper was a novelty, like the deep blue jacket Astrid told him Saga liked.  
Astrid showed Henrik her choice, a black jumper with a glittering pink panther on the front.

 

They were again close to Piazzale Venezia, from a slightly different approach.  
A square with ancient columns appeared, protected by a glass fence; they walked to it and read the panel explaining once four temples dedicated to the Roman gods stood there.  
Saga used her finger to trace on the panel the location of the ancient temples and compare to the current situation, when Henrik saw a red cat standing near them on a low brick wall, a part of the fence.  
He noticed other tourists were taking photos of the animal and when he moved to let them get a better view he saw another cat on the stair leading to the lower area, looking at him from a iron gate that prevented the use of the stair.  
He called Astrid who noticed two more cats walking in the middle of the ancient ruins.  
“It is unbelievable cats can survive in such an environment.” Saga was puzzled. “How do they get food? And there is a lot of traffic around here.”  
They decided to walk around the fence and at the second turn they saw a metal stair going down near a poster with the drawing of a cat and some inscriptions in Italian and English.  
It was the cat sanctuary of Largo Argentina, internet swiftly revealed it was a famous place dedicated to the cats of Rome. According to the opening hours, it was possible to visit so they descended the stair.  
A large room under some vaults welcomed them, full of cats sleeping in various beds, eating, cleaning themselves. Three women wearing black T shirts with a cat on it welcomed the visitors, there were already five or six people talking in various languages, petting some cats, buying souvenirs whose money – one of the women explained - would be used to help stray cats, neuter and feed colonies not only there but all around Rome.  
Astrid was enthusiast and when Saga stood near one of the tables full of cat beds a black cat started rubbing against her. At first she remained immobile, but then the insistence of the animal made Saga caress his back; the fur was soft like silk. Astrid approached Saga.  
“Dad, look at this one, he's got three legs only.”  
“I think a cat can survive well also without a leg.”  
A woman whose badge had “Simona” written on it smiled at Astrid.  
“Your father is right. He was hit by a car , the veterinarian saved his life but not his leg”.  
“How many cats there are here?”  
“More than one hundred.”  
Simona pointed at another room, separated by an iron gate, where other cats were enjoying a heater placed in the centre.  
“There we keep the oldest, or those who are ill, on the other side we have the ambulatory.”  
Saga called Henrik's attention.  
“I think he likes me.” The black cat wanted more cuddles and shameless continued to rub on Saga's body.  
Simona was stupefied of the scene under her eyes. “Nero 3 is usually very shy.”  
“Why is he called Nero 3?”  
“His fur is nero, black, and emperor Nerone was so famous many cats are called by his name or similar variants. We have lots of black cats here we have not enough original names for them. I think you've a special way with animals.”  
“I never had a pet in my life.”  
“We could get a cat at home. Astrid, would you like?”  
His daughter eyes' got the right light. She nodded enthusiastically at Henrik’s idea.  
Saga whispered Henrik she wanted to give a donation to the place, so she took off her wallet and asked Simona who was talking with Astrid how to make an offer.  
Simona gave Saga a leaflet and told it was also possible to adopt at distance an animal.  
“Can I adopt him?” Saga pointed at her black friend.  
“Sure you can. He's free.”  
“And if I wanted him at home? Henrik, can we have a cat? Is it possible to make him travel?”  
“Air companies accept pets and all our cats are neutered, vaccinated and chipped.”  
In a quarter of an hour Saga had called the air company, bought a safe cat carrier, signed adoption papers and paid an air ticket for her pet. A large donation filled the box over the desk. 

 

The new bags with their purchases were heavy – a pair of shoes for Henrik added to the list - and Astrid felt tired; she eyed another church and proposed to sit for a while. She had learned fast churches were also a place to rest; neither Henrik nor Saga opposed, tiredness and aching foot were starting on them, too.  
Inside it was huge, a space squared more than rectangular, with columns dressed in red and green striped marbles.  
The inscription said it was a church built by traders from north Italy in VXVII century, to show the power of the northern cities opposed to Rome.  
And indeed the sensation of importance with a large painting over the altar, dedicated to two important saints of Milan, Carlo and Ambrogio, was perceptible.  
Astrid took photos, she wanted to prepare a research regarding the various architectonic styles in Rome. The previous day they immersed in the ancient roman empire, then moved to the city of popes, now they were full into the families who had the economic power. 

 

Time to meet Caravaggio; it was around five o clock, still some light, different from Denmark already in full darkness. Astrid lead the adults to Piazza del Popolo, she needed only a short glimpse of the map folded in her pocket to understand their position and destination.  
Henrik thought he was good at finding directions, but Astrid showed a similar ability; proud of his daughter, he made a bet with himself she'd have few difficulties in driving when she'd obtain her own license.  
After all the times Alice got the wrong way at the wheel, he was happy first Saga and then Astrid could be excellent drivers.  
They entered the small building with the painting, the darkness was intense, the chapel with the Caravaggio was on the left, a few people were inside when suddenly light invaded the chapel; there was a paying button to push to turn the lights one.  
Astrid approached swiftly, the others followed and all were mesmerized by the way the artist had created the scene. The focus at first sight was on the horse – Saga noted – but then the attention was directed to the man lying on the ground, arms outstretched to the light that blinded him.  
Astrid bowed her head to try to see Saint Paul's face better, but it was quite impossible. Henrik recalled old notions from the time he liked to do photos, in his late teens he attended a amateur group of photographers.  
“The meaning of the paint is not the saint, it is the whole composition. The sense of diagonal, the volumes in the scene, the huge horse and the small man.”


	3. Chapter 3

EVENING

 

Around seven they were back in the apartment near Campo dei Fiori, in time to collect the food Henrik had ordered.   
They met Carlo at the main door, shaking hands with a woman, wishing her and family a happy new year; Carlo asked if everything was ok and if they were going out to celebrate or eat at home.   
Saga lifted up her bag and briefly said Henrik would prepare dinner.  
Carlo called his wife at the intercom and Sandra asked Saga to climb upstairs for a few minutes.   
The Manzoni had a well furnished apartment with a small terrace, a huge Christmas tree stood in the living room. A red cat was sleeping under it and Saga went to caress him.   
“I’ve adopted a cat from Largo Argentina.”  
“Indeed? It’s great!”   
“I hope the travel won't upset him. I paid cabin ticket.”  
“I’m sure he’ll be well with you.”  
Sandra lead Saga to a small room, set up as an office, a selection of scarves and foulards on show.  
“I want you to choose something for you and your girl.”   
“You don’t need to, we’re here for four nights only.”  
“I trade these items. I‘m not going to tell you a lie pretending I paid them full price.”   
“You don’t lie?”   
“No, I find it difficult, especially in my job, salesman are big liars, but I think a real professional is values for actions, not for words.”  
“A friend told me once sometimes people had to lie.”  
“That is sure, you should see our politicians, how do they lie, every day, every word they say is the truth and its opposite.”  
“I'm not able to lie. I've hurt some people, I know.”   
“So with your honesty, you're blessed and cursed at the same time.”  
Saga looked at Sandra in a new way, her weakness could be her strength.   
Sandra spread the items more.   
“It’s all silk, not poly, some scarves are part wool. Choose what you want.”  
Saga eyed a blue scarf, one of Astrid’s favourite colours.  
“This for Astrid.”  
“She isn’t yours, is she?”  
“No, her mother is dead. She’s got Henrik only, and me.”

 

Henrik busied himself in the small kitchen, glad he opted for a mostly cold dinner; two fires were a little unpractical, compared to his large kitchen, but it was enough for his pasta with seafood.   
He closed his eyes, back home for a moment, when cooking for two became for three; after the days spent together in summer Saga decided what to do of her life and she confirmed only him from her past.   
Astrid was watching an English documentary about African animals on tv, her new silk scarf from Sandra draped around her neck, so Henrik asked Saga to follow him in the bedroom.   
She looked puzzled, he was cooking, they had no time for whatever intimacy to share, the fires were both on, the bol quite ready, she didn't want him to ruin the dinner.  
He took a small packet from his coat and offered her. She recognized the brand written on the red paper, from a chain selling night wear and underwear; according to the size, it wasn't a winter night gown.  
“I hope you'll wear it tonight.”  
Henrik was a little tense about her reaction when she tore the paper and saw the red underwear, a bra and matching panties, a simple model, with a line of lace on the hems.  
“I don't use red.”  
“I know, tradition asks to wear red underwear tonight to bring luck. I thought it would be a pleasure to see it on you. It's a practical outfit, not frilly, you can wear it every day.”   
“You…” She stopped, ready to announce luck wasn’t connected with whatever colour one was wearing; it would be rude toward Henrik, who was happy to present. “You’re very kind. Thanks.”   
She examined carefully the gift, controlled the size – it must be normal for a man to know the cup of his woman's bra – and went to the bathroom to change; when she returned to the living area Henrik felt a strange pleasure in knowing what was hidden under her clothes.   
The stirring in his groin was unwelcomed at the moment and he chastised himself; he had patience now, having all the confirmations in the world she did care for him: sometimes she did let him spoon her at night, before sleep conquered both. Later. Sweet and passionate at the same time, to begin a new year with Saga sharing his bed.

 

Astrid prepared the table, Saga moved the plates from the tiny kitchen where Henrik was working to the dining area. Henrik had bought a selection of fish from the fish shop Sandra suggested him.   
With seafood he created his own version of spaghetti. They were all hungry after a day of walking and no leftovers remained, including the “capitone”, the local name for the eel; when he collected his shopping bag at the shop all the customers there – understanding he was a foreigner – wanted to teach him about the typical Italian food and suggested he had to try it. It was strong but tasty at the same time and Saga asked if they could bring home some cans.   
Saga looked at Astrid texting with friends and at Henrik doing the cleaning. A new year was starting in less than two hours, time to make a balance.  
She found the closure she needed and the overture she wanted.   
Making peace with her past gave her way to have the future she longed and feared since she met Henrik.  
It wasn’t so difficult to share his life and let him be close, now that he was with a daughter.   
She had not lost Henrik with Astrid back. She had gained a young woman to help in their common long path to return to life.  
Was it the real meaning of parenthood? Show the children joys and difficulties of life, support them in their choices, give advices? Henrik was able to do so and Saga was learning.

 

“Do you want to go out to the big event? We could get a night bus for the Circo Massimo.”  
“Is it far?”   
“I don’t think so, Saga pass me the map, please.”  
Astrid was pondering dad’s proposal when the door bell rang and Carlo was on the treshold.   
“I see you're here. If you want come upstairs with me and family for midnight, we’ll be happy.”  
“We don’t want to disturb.”   
“Not at all, we are five, me, wife, her friend and two kids.”  
Henrik turned to Astrid and Saga, telling them he'd accept whatever decision.  
Astrid was tired and Saga was worried for the crowd, so around 11 they rang the bell of the Manzoni family.   
Time to make acquaintance, talk sat in the comfy couch and armchairs, meet the kids, Alberto Manzoni and his friend Giovanni, discover Sandra ‘s friend Franca, Giovanni's mother, was married to a doctor on duty in hospital that night.  
“I bet he’ll finish late, the major has forbidden botti and petardi, but I'm sure no one will respect it.”  
“What do you mean?” Saga stated the law had to be respected.   
“You’ll hear at midnight the noise, it’s tradition here,.” Franca seemed resigned to the idea.  
A bad tradition, Sandra added.   
“Sandra, it’s for fun.”   
“No fun at all, Franca, when people get injured or die and pets are scared. Every years someone loose a hand or an eye. Do you remember last year how your parents’ Labrador got crazy and he was inside the house with us?”  
Saga was listening to the conversation; so in Italy the law could be forgotten and nobody would feel guilty, something impossible to imagine for her.  
She asked Sandra what the sanction would be in case of breaking the order.  
“The police are not caring, I’m sure. It’s a shame. I can only respect the order for myself and not allow my family or guests to use them here.”

 

The television started the countdown.  
Carlo popped a bottle of spumante and offered a glass to everybody, Saga asked just a finger for herself and Henrik, the young received soft drinks. Henrik looked at the glass in his hands and then at Saga, who nodded to support him and told him just to wet his lips.  
Ten.  
Anticipation in the eyes of everybody.   
Nine.  
Sandra cutting two more slices of a cake shaped as a dome, the traditional cake of their hometown, she said, bought in the same bakery her father used to.  
Eight.   
The kids opening the window, looking at the neighbours preparing the fireworks.  
Seven.  
Astrid texting on her phone to her Danish schoolmates.   
Six  
Saga moving closer to Henrik.  
Five.  
Carlo offering the cake to everybody.  
Four.  
Astrid hugging Henrik.  
Three.  
Two.   
One  
Fireworks from the television screen invaded the house, on the street and in the houses nearby people started shouting and singing.   
The noise from the botti was incredible, Saga tried to cover her ears and Sandra passed her two earplugs with a sad look. They were shoulder to shoulder and had to shout to be heard.  
“I told you it would be terrible. I don’t want to argue with Franca, she and Matteo are friends. But I’m so angry.””  
“You are right. I hope cats of Largo Argentina are safe.”  
“Be sure, the volunteers control the area. I hate this with all my heart.”  
“But you’re used to.”  
“Not at all, when I was younger we never had them at home. I was born in Milan, we are here because my husband works for the Bank of Italy, but I hope to return home when he stops working. The apartment you use is ours, while this belongs to the bank. We bought the one downstairs because it will be fun to have a future pied a terre in Rome, but not living here.”   
Carlo was calling for a toast, hugs followed, Saga was so captured by the atmosphere she didn’t realize Franca gave her a brief hug and kiss on the cheek, followed by Carlo himself.   
She turned to Henrik who was hugging Astrid for dear life, they were lost in their world, his shoulders were sobbing and Saga was sure he was crying.  
After a moment, Saga went closer, putting a hand on his arm; Henrik turned his head, saw Saga and moved to add her to the embrace.  
Sandra lifted her glass to Saga, smiling.

 

They returned downstairs around one in the morning.   
The sounds of fireworks and cheers subsided, some people were talking aloud under their windows, but soon moved away.   
Astride went straight to the bathroom to change for the night and Henrik opened the couch to prepare her bed in the living area.   
Saga switched place with Astrid and Henrik wished again his baby a happy new year, adding a loving hug.   
“Tomorrow we can do whatever you want.”   
“A walk along the river? Alberto asked his parents to go all together.”  
“So be it. We’ll talk with them tomorrow morning. Sleep well, I'll prepare breakfast when you got up.”  
“I'll do it for you. I' m grown up, I can do it.”  
Henrik entered the bedroom and Saga was applying a cream on her face.   
She started using hydrating cream since Astrid noticed her skin was spent and her hands often dry, the veins on the back bigger than before, or her hands thinner than at twenty. Years of neglecting her body started taking a toll, she had confirmation looking at her reflection in the mirror. Forties were into her. Saga asked cream samples in a pharmacy and she soon discovered the difference of having a soft and velvet skin; indulging in little pleasures was good, she was happy when Henrik noticed the change and complimented her. He adored those little signs that showed she care about him so much to make small adjustments to her lifestyle. He believed they were more meaningful than a radical change.  
Saga was sat on the bed in a bathrobe, her hair weren't wet; she stood to meet him and offered him the knob of the robe.  
He slowly opened it and saw the red underwear. The size was perfect, he had controlled her bra without her noticing for the surprise.  
The breasts were a little compressed by the new garment and her body was always a pleasure to see and feel. Henrik placed his hands on her hips, pulling Saga closer, then caressing gently her back, a body part she let him touch easier than her front.   
The pattern he traced showed his hunger, Saga pushed him on the bed, let the robe fall from she shoulders, leaned over him, for a moment aligning herself with him, two halves fitting like it had to be.   
He was ready, she touched him then stood up, removed his boxers, her thin panties and also the bra.   
They made love slowly at first, then gained pace, speed, each wanting the other more, deeper, closer, bonding together until their own firework exploded.   
Saga felt her body was relaxed, the food, the evening, the lovemaking, but her mind was in full motion.   
The new year would start well, things to do, new friends to talk with, a pet to collect and take care, a family to live with. For once, Saga Noren thought life was good.


End file.
